It’s so cold.
I’m huddled in my triple-lined tracksuit pants under my usual loose-fitted pants, lying beneath a thick quilt, covered in kittens, with the heater on red.
It’s so cold here.
I dream of electric sheep with their own thermostat. I picture a sliding dual-coloured spectrum and know that I need to make a choice.
It’s so cold under here.
Personally, I liked it better when I was sober.
– Scott Sandwich